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He was born on a private plane. Flying over fucking Newark.
His first sensation after waking up from death was blood flowing down his throat — Armand's blood. He opened his eyes, but the world was a blurry mess of light and color. His memory was still fuzzy, and he could hardly recall the fact that he was dead, much less the events that had lead to it. Still, he knew it was Armand's blood in his mouth. He could recognize the taste even in death.
He was cold, so cold he didn't understand why his body wasn't shivering yet. And weak, empty — he could do nothing but take in desperate gulps of the blood being offered.
Daniel drank and drank until he could perceive the world around him again. Armand was over him, extending one arm to feed him. A heartbeat pounded in his ears, drowning out the noise of turbines. When he began to feel warm, the arm was pulled back, but Daniel followed the movement until they were face to face.
Armand stared at him with wide eyes and parted lips. Daniel's vision took a moment to focus and let him comprehend what he was seeing — terror. The face of someone seeing their own death. That heartbeat still thrummed distantly in his ears. Daniel didn't understand his reaction. He wanted to tell him, Why are you afraid? I'm alive. Your blood made me alive, but he didn't remember how to shape into words the broken sound that left his throat.
Armand's face contorted even more, like he had never seen something so hideous. Daniel needed him to understand. Needed him closer, feeding him, giving him the sound of his heartbeat. He crawled forward and Armand leaned away, one arm braced on the plane's carpeted floor. Daniel barely noticed it, kept moving ahead until he could touch Armand, now frozen in place.
That close together, Daniel saw there were tears in Armand's eyes. Don't cry, I'm alive. Oh, but Armand couldn't hear his thoughts anymore. A drop trailed down his cheek, so red, and Daniel was so hungry. He lapped at it, and Armand sobbed. Such a horrible sound, and so alien coming from this mouth, Daniel couldn't stand to hear it. He let Armand's tears wet his own face as he kissed him.
Armand still didn't move, and his next sob was torn from deep in his chest and pressed against Daniel's lips. Armand's own lips were split open by Daniel's teeth. It was strange, kissing Armand with fangs. It changed the shape of it.
Daniel pulled away and was only made more confused by Armand's new expression. Guilt, now. And still so much fear.
He realized, then, that he wasn't done dying. His chest heaved and his insides burned. The turbines became too loud. He couldn't hear Armand's heart anymore.
He spent minutes, or hours, retching on the floor, shitting his pants and choking on red tears. Armand watched, curled in between two seats and digging claws in his own arms. The only moments Daniel looked up were to see the drops of blood staining the carpet beside his maker.
The plane landed, eventually, which only marginally helped to make the world stop spinning around Daniel. The door to the pilot's cabin opened and he smelled it — blood. Mortal blood, alive and hot.
Everything surrounding him slipped away while he drained the pilot. When he finished, he was alone in the plane.
Nights later, he would ask himself how he could have known the taste of Armand's blood, or the shape of his mouth.
Daniel thought he deserved it, when he allowed himself to think of it at all — what was more fair than the universe giving him his own deadbeat father?
Louis helped him through most of the basics, once he calmed down from his rage at seeing what Armand had done to Daniel. Vampirism 101 was mostly chores — hiding bodies, cleaning up after your kills, scouring for sun-proofed rooms to sleep in — and Louis taught him each one with the magnanimity of someone given the perfect opportunity to prove they are better than their ex.
As thorough as Louis' lessons were, however, Daniel couldn't stop himself from wondering what it would be like if Armand had stayed. Would he stray away from Louis humanitarian qualms and guide him through hunts in person? Would he hold a victim in place and show Daniel just how to strike and where to bite? He could almost hear his voice as he roamed the streets. Not this one, Mr. Molloy, she is too thin. You'll want someone who'll last longer with the blood loss.
Daniel didn't care about fairness. He wanted his maker.
He tried texting his daughters. Told them his new treatment was working out well and that he was writing a new book. Kate was polite enough when talking about his health. She stopped texting back when he said what the book was about.
Lenora was warmer. She said she missed him, and when he suggested visiting her she even bothered to think of a credible excuse for refusing. She seemed to find the book idea funny. She only stopped talking to him again once the press tour began.
Being a vampire made Daniel feel young again. Sixteen, to be exact, if he was looking for an equivalent age in hunger, libido and just how easily anything could get on his nerves. He was not his best at interviews — he had never been known to be well-behaved in the media, but now he was just a dick. Every critic and reporter he had to listen to for more than five minutes became just a fly buzzing around his head and begging to be squashed between his palms.
His daughters didn't want any association with him, the public thought he was a joke, and his maker couldn't stand to look at him for long enough to teach him how to dispose of a body. If he changed his button-up shirts for leather jackets, if he haunted the exits of nightclubs looking for someone high on a different drug every night to drain, if he couldn't open his mouth without insulting or demeaning the people around him in the most obnoxious way possible — hey, he was sixteen again. Could you blame him?
Another particular cause for his newfound adolescence was the feeling of being at odds with his body. He was no stranger to being betrayed by his own flesh, but this wasn't trembling hands and cracking joints. His predicament was more similar to that of a teenage boy popping boners everywhere.
It was the fangs.
He was leaving yet another exasperating interview when he heard the thoughts of one of the backstage workers he walked past. The book was fun, but the fangs are a bit much. He frowned, confused, and ran his tongue over his teeth. Sure enough, there they were. Had his fangs been out during the whole interview? That explained why he couldn't stop thinking about tearing the host's throat open.
He was in a shitty nightclub's restroom, having graduated from hanging by the exit after he shed the last of his pretenses at dignity. Everyone sent weird looks at the old man in band t-shirts who sometimes got a bit too handsy in the dance floor, but he was getting good at blocking out thoughts. There was some kid in the restroom that reminded Daniel too much of himself half a century ago. He was debating whether that meant he wanted to spare the boy or kill him even harder when the kid took out a small plastic bag from his pocket.
Daniel's years in rehab were a distant and insignificant memory as he eyed the coke. One of the perks of being a vampire was that he didn't have to worry about how drugs would affect his health anymore; one of the perks of being Daniel Molloy was that there wasn't anyone left in his life to worry about how they would affect his behavior.
The kid caught him staring and said, "You're not gonna tell on me, are you, grandpa?"
He really did remind Daniel too much of himself. He had half a mind to drain the boy later for that, but at the moment he was too busy craving the high.
"Not if you share," he grinned at the kid.
The boy fumbled the lines he was cutting up on the counter when he turned to look at him. "Woah," he leaned forward, squinting at Daniel's mouth. "Nice fangs, man."
He was sitting in a small book shop, at the end of a hour-long book signing. Those events weren't much better for his mood than interviews. Even if he got positive attention in them, it wasn't the kind of attention he wanted — young women excited about his world-building and characterization, going on and on about how crazy they were about that story he created and Mr. Molloy, what is it about your writing that makes so many readers feel drawn to Armand even when he causes the main character so much suffering?
He was relieved when the last woman in line had more interesting questions. It was late enough that the book shop was almost closing, but he let her sit down next to him and make conversation.
"You would think that, under so much digital surveillance, it would be impossible for vampires to hide in the modern world. But when we catch everything on camera, it's so easy to get bored or dismiss anything as fake." He watched her hands as she waved them around while she spoke. "We could very well have seen a vampire caught on video today when we woke up, but I thought it was a deepfake, and you thought it was a marketing stunt for some movie that will be announced two months for now, and we both closed Twitter because we needed to get out of bed and start the day."
It was rare, lately, that he got to talk about something he cared about with someone with more than two neurons to rub together, so he enjoyed the opportunity. He leaned forward to answer and felt his fangs unsheathe. Weird.
That close, he could smell the blood under her skin, but he had already fed earlier that night, and he didn't feel a particularly strong urge to drain her. He also had no reason to want to hurt the woman — she was nice. And smart. And had very red lips and a ridiculously form-fitting blouse…
He made up some excuse and hurried back to his hotel room. He spent the rest of the night jerking off angrily and biting into his own forearm.
Louis, he called. Hey, man, I got a vamp question for you.
Silence. He knew Louis could hear him, wherever the fuck he was; he was just giving Daniel the cold shoulder because of the book's publication. But Louis liked to think of himself as too righteous to ignore a fledgling asking for help.
Daniel, the impatient response came eventually.
Louis! Had any luck reconciling with the prima donna yet?
What was your question.
Daniel sighed. He could continue trying to annoy Louis to get the upper hand in what was going to be a very uncomfortable conversation, but he needed a helpful answer.
Look, man, back when you were turned. Did you have any trouble controlling your fangs?
Fledgling appetite is often uncontrollable, Louis began. It was a good thing he dropped the coldness in favor of waxing poetic about vampire nature, but still not the answer Daniel was looking for.
No, I mean, even when you aren't hungry.
A pause. Bloodthirst can find its way in many strong emotions, for a vampire. Anger. Lust.
Annoyance, Daniel continued. Craving a fix. Mild sexual interest.
Daniel, Louis sounded amused, like he was holding back laughter. Asshole. Have you tried meditation?
Just tell me if it's a common problem.
Not that I know of, no, he mused. But blood is tricky. Maybe Armand had a similar predicament, when he was young. His tone soured when thinking the name, and Daniel sent the bitterness back in double. He wasn't getting an answer, then.
The world went quiet around Daniel, everything suspended but the familiar and weirdly comforting sensation of being watched. It had happened enough times by then that all he should feel about it was annoyance, but he still hadn't managed to keep his dead heart from beating faster whenever he knew Armand was close.
He had already given up on being contacted directly — Armand clearly didn't want anything to do with him, and all that stalking was probably just payback for Dubai. Still, every time his maker's presence halted time around him, he couldn't help feeling betrayed. Armand had already gotten his revenge by abandoning him hungry and lost in his death. Why tantalize him like that?
He was surprised when he heard Armand say "Hello, Daniel" behind him, but not enough to forget all the resentment that had been swirling in his chest for the last two years. He didn't let Armand speak, both to cut off any attempt at manipulation and because he couldn't stand to hear that voice again.
Daniel had spent countless hours re-listening to his Dubai interviews while writing his book, and an embarrassing amount more after he published it. The Armand in those recordings was suspended in time, telling and retelling the same story for Daniel's benefit alone. It had given him a weak satisfaction that at least that version of his maker was his to keep.
The real Armand — as far as anything about him could be called real — was too dangerous to be given leniency. Daniel let two — fifty two — years of hurt talk for him in the desperate hope that there would still be something in that 517-year-old husk alive enough to feel a sting.
He left before Armand could answer, and it only worsened his bitterness that his maker didn't stop him — didn't break his spine to pin him in place, didn't force him to listen to what he had to say, didn't even deem him worthy of killing for the disrespect.
He told himself that it was for the best. There was blood in his mouth from all the times his fangs pricked his tongue while he yelled at Armand.
Later, Lestat's insinuation that Daniel hadn't been able to catch Armand off-guard even in Dubai made him give up on pretending to himself he didn't care about his maker. He needed Lestat to be wrong, needed at least that to be real — Armand's hurt when Louis left him, Armand's rage when he was left only with Daniel. He couldn't bear the thought that all he had ever seen of the other vampire was theater.
He chased him down after Lestat's show. Armand talked about things Daniel didn't care about — Lestat's reputation, the Great Conversion —, eyes straying downwards to his lips as he did so. No, not his lips — his fangs. They had been out since he pinned Armand to the wall, the smell of his blood from up close and the anger still vibrating inside him making it an impossibility to hold them back.
Armand could stare all he wanted, Daniel didn't care. Let him think Daniel wanted to hurt him.
Then, Daniel asked him about Dubai, and Armand said it — eyes avoiding him until fixating back on his as if they had nowhere else to go, face blank after a millisecond of half-pain, half-confusion — love.
The realization shocked Daniel's fangs right back inside his gums. It wasn't the word, or the meaning behind it; it was his eyes. The same eyes Daniel had seen when he had been spit back into this world — fearful, like a cornered animal, like a heretic awaiting judgment. It was how the truth rested on Armand's face.
He was living with Armand. Maybe Daniel should have more self respect, should have learned a lesson from his own writing about his maker's duplicity, or taken inspiration from his daughters' resolve and turned his back when pops came back from buying cigarettes two years late. But he had been so lonely, and there was something in his blood that longed to be back inside Armand's veins.
He wasn't capable of refusing the offer of companionship — not emotionally, maybe not even physically. Armand might as well have put a leash around his neck alongside his teeth, Daniel thought often, a mix of self-hatred and arousal swimming in his stomach.
They didn't share a room, but they shared a house — a mansion, really, complete with a solicitous but discreet staff and an increasingly ridiculous collection of electronic gadgets (what did they need an air fryer for??). As large as the place was, however, they always seemed to end up in each other's space: Armand hovering by curiously while Daniel bared his fangs at a news anchor across the TV screen or doomscrolled Twitter curled in on himself on the couch; Daniel pretending to be interested in random trinkets in Armand's study while his maker scribbled on a notepad and obsessively checked four different screens over his desk.
It wasn't normalcy, nor was it calmness; there was an impending sense of doom, brought by Lestat's suspicious silence after telling him he would make a new album and Armand's frantic plotting. Still, it was a routine, and one that involved talking to another person instead of wasting his nights away in a bowling alley, which had to be an improvement. Besides, Daniel didn't care about vamp politics — he didn't care much about anything, lately; not since he had watched his career drain down the sewer holes of conspiracism and gay erotica.
Armand was good company, which undermined Daniel's previous judgment of him to such an extent he gave up on a third Pulitzer for good. He had been sure Armand only had two modes, boring or infuriating, and that they would be trying to kill each other by their second week of cohabitation. Instead, Armand talked to him — about everything. Contemporary American geopolitics, Chinese railroad infrastructure, 1960s Brazilian cinema, Finnish nuclear waste repositories… every night a new subject, or twenty, giving Daniel whiplash and sometimes even getting him to close TikTok and do some research.
As exciting as their discussions could be, Armand kept some distance. He would be quiet, some nights, lost in plans for the future, maybe, but more likely drowning in the past. Even in the noisy nights, when it seemed like Armand was testing how long he could talk without dislocating his jaw, there were moments when his words trailed off and his eyes glazed over, looking at Daniel like he was a ghost.
Armand was hiding something — understatement of the Modern Era. But, among his countless secrets, there was something he was keeping from Daniel, specifically.
It wasn't just his maker's behavior that convinced him of it — Daniel's own mind had been playing tricks on him, since they started living together.
He could tell from the sound of Armand's footsteps when he arrived in the living room early in the night whether he had slept well or badly (or at all). He could tell from the stillness in his frame how long it had been since he had last fed, and from the tension on his shoulders whether he planned to let the hunger grow or finally give in for the night. And Daniel didn't know why he knew those things — you don't figure out someone's tells like that from just a month of living together.
One night, he had been out shopping, testing to see how much use he could get out of Armand's credit card before the other vampire showed a reaction, when something caught his eyes. A denim jacket, fitted on a mannequin of a much slimmer build than his. It reminded him a bit of the 70s, which he had no reason to be nostalgic about and, inexplicably, made him think of Armand. He supposed Armand would look good wearing it, but that wasn't necessarily to the jacket's credit — put anything over Verrochio's David and see if it'll look ugly.
He decided to buy it as part of his ongoing experiment on how to push Armand's buttons and get him to drop the benevolent maker act. That was bratty, right? Here's something I bought with your own money; wear it. It had to win him at least a raised eyebrow.
When he grabbed the jacket, however, something made him pause. Armand wouldn't wear this, he thought. He doesn't like how denim feels on his skin.
The thought came to him before the realization that he had never heard, in the few days he had spent in Dubai or in the weeks since moving in with him, Armand express any opinion on clothing fabric. Just as many other bits of information his mind had been supplying about Armand, Daniel had no idea where that came from, and at that point the confusion was beginning to give way to annoyance.
Armand had told him he had spent decades stalking him for the blurry — and, since that night, unmentioned — reason of "love". Daniel hadn't believed in his whole story, because it was Armand, but what if he hadn't been adding to his tale, but subtracting? He could be telling the truth, just not all of it.
Daniel wandered through the streets, lost in his thoughts, until he reached a park. That late in the night, it was almost completely empty, and the silence around him gave him an idea. He sat on the nearest bench and let his mind slow down, taking breaths he didn't need in an even rhythm. He imagined cold gravel against his feet and Louis' voice urging him to focus, to remember.
He just needed one memory. Something to prove that he wasn't losing his mind, to explain the connection he felt to his maker. He focused on Armand's face, and searched for it in his memories. There was San Francisco, and all the baggage that came with it, but he set that apart. He looked further, in the holes in his memory he had always just assumed had been caused by drugs and old age, and felt the beginning of a headache. He pushed through the pounding in his mind, a nearly insurmountable barrier of pain, until he saw something—
Orange eyes were looking at him. Not hungry — curious. There were faint noises of cutlery and conversation around them, and, between them, a banquet. Armand had done his ordering everything on the menu routine enough times by then that Daniel almost didn't feel any embarrassment about it anymore. He cut a piece of steak from the nearest plate and said, still chewing,
"At this point you must know no human can eat this much."
"I don't expect you to," Armand answered placidly. "I merely wish to give you options."
Daniel chuckled and decided to ascribe the warmth that bloomed in his stomach to the wine. "Hey, man, as long as you're the one paying…"
Armand bowed his head slightly in agreement, and there was a humorous shine in his eyes. It was that good mood that had Daniel asking,
"So, got any plans for tonight?"
Armand always did, but recently Daniel had realized that he liked talking about them beforehand, so he let him. "I have acquired tickets for a recent motion picture you might find interesting. It is called Jaws."
Daniel grinned. "You haven't see Jaws yet? Man, you're gonna love it."
Armand's eyes lost their glint. "Have you already watched this film?"
"Uh, yeah." Daniel felt cold, suddenly, though he was pretty sure controlling room temperature wasn't one of Armand's powers. "A couple weeks ago."
"Who did you watch it with?" Armand demanded, but Daniel could feel he didn't plan to wait for an answer and was already searching his memories for it. Indignation swelled up inside him.
"Why does it matter? You weren't here, were you? I have a life of my own, I don't need to wait for when you decide to show up to live it."
Armand's irises twitched dangerously, and—
Walking down the street, a hurried pace. He couldn't see Armand, but he felt him stalking him. Whatever, let him sulk in the shadows, since he didn't want to go to the movies anymore. Asshole—
Shoving, shouting. Not in the streets — his apartment. It was a mess around him, but it had already been a mess before the fight, so it was no great loss. Armand's hands on him, his back against the wall—
Armand's mouth, hot and wet with blood—
Daniel opened his eyes, then closed them again when the street lights seemed too bright. The throbbing between his ears was torturous, and the world span around him. After minutes curled in on himself and groaning in pain on the bench, he got enough consciousness back to grit out one word:
"Asshole."
"You callous, scheming, disturbed—"
"Hello, Daniel." Armand didn't look bothered by the sudden intrusion in his study. He turned to him with a staged tranquility Daniel wanted more than ever to punch off his face.
"Is your need for control pathological, or do you just get off on it?"
He looked at Daniel for a second longer with that calmness, then something his eyes caught made him change his posture. His spine unwound from its usual perfectly upright position and he shifted his weight slightly, as if preparing for movement — if towards him or away, Daniel didn't know —, but he quickly schooled himself back in place. Armand's face was still collected, but Daniel could see the flash of something in his eyes — resignation.
"You remember," he said, simply. There was just enough emotion in his voice for Daniel not to be sure if he was still acting.
"I don't know — what is there to remember, Armand? What lie will you feed me this time?"
Infuriatingly, Armand didn't waver. "I told you the truth," he said.
"You have a very particular understanding of this word's meaning," Daniel noted, but Armand continued,
"We met in San Francisco, where Louis took you to his apartment and almost killed you. I saved you from him and kept you captive — initially out of jealousy, I admit, but you caught my attention. Your eagerness to cling on to a life just as worthless as a thousand others I had already cut short fascinated me—"
"Your Nintendo Switch fascinates you," Daniel cut him off, "but I don't see you sticking your dick in it."
"After we let you go," Armand went on, though the tension in his jaw gave Daniel the satisfaction of having at least made a dent in his composure, "I was still intrigued. So I followed you."
"Not exactly stalking me from the shadows, if you were taking me to dinner."
"I followed you," there was a faint impatience seeping into his words — Daniel was ruining his speech, "with every intention to haunt you. If Louis wouldn't let me kill you, then I wanted you broken. But whenever I revealed myself to you, you never responded with the aversion I expected. You looked at me and—" his mouth curled in a smile Daniel struggled not to call wistful "— you saw me."
"A bright young reporter…" Daniel tried to ignore the sourness the quote brought to his mouth. "So I was your side bitch when you got tired of Louis' emotional distance."
Armand's smile disappeared. "No."
"Your pet, then. And let me guess: Louis was in on it."
His maker's eyes flashed with irritation. "You do not know how foolish—"
"Why did you do it?" Daniel let his own indignation raise his voice. "If it meant something to you, why did you take my memories?"
Armand closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to regain control over himself. He answered, slowly,
"When you were leaving rehabilitation — for the fifth time," he added, like the dick that he was, "— what would you have given to forget what cocaine felt like?"
The nerve of him. "You are one self-conceited bastard," Daniel barked out a laugh. "You think you're, what, so hot I would go insane over a breakup?"
"A relationship between a human and a vampire—" Armand began, but Daniel didn't have the patience for lectures about vampire nature anymore.
"I don't give a fuck. Give me my memories back."
Armand's restraint slipped again. "I cannot give you anything! I've told you already: I can no longer manipulate your mind."
Daniel felt a cold grip in his chest. Was that it, then? He would forever have holes in his mind, and have to rely on Armand's word for what filled them? Something of that dread must have showed on his face, because his maker hesitated.
"However," Armand sighed, exasperated but placating, "the memories are still in your mind, hidden. I might be able to… guide you to them."
Armand-guided meditation. Sure, why not — it wasn't like Daniel had any sense of self-preservation left.
"Alright. Do it."
His maker nodded. "In the following month—"
"Now, Armand."
He looked at Daniel cautiously. "I do not think that would be wise."
"I don't care what you think."
"Daniel, you are angry with me—"
"So you've been studying your emotional recognition flashcards!"
"—as you have the right to be," Armand ignored his mocking. "Recovering your memories now, in this state, might overwhelm you with… unwanted emotions."
Again, the nerve. "I'll manage," he stated dryly.
When Daniel didn't budge, Armand sighed and led him to the armchair by his bookshelf, telling him to sit down and kneeling before him once he did so. The sight of his maker looking up at him from practically between his legs made Daniel thank every non-existent deity for Armand's current inability to read his mind. He reached a hand to Daniel's face, and Daniel leaned forward into his hold.
"Close your eyes, Daniel, and follow my voice."
Daniel did his best to calm down, already anticipating the pain he had felt during his last attempt at remembering, but, as he relaxed under the spell of Armand's soft words, none came. He wasn't running headfirst into a mental barrier anymore — he was being guided by someone who knew his mind more intimately than perhaps even himself.
"You've heard this voice before. You've felt this touch—" Armand brushed his thumb against his chin "—countless times. Come back to me."
Daniel let his eyes flutter shut and his mind wander through the current of Armand's presence. He imagined knowing the shape of his face by touch, the taste of his mouth. Knowing how he looked early in the night, hair tousled, the smell of sleep still on him. He imagined knowing what sharing a life with that strange man was like, and, at some point, imagination tipped into memory.
He knew Armand — so many pieces and shapes, and he knew them all. Eyes bright with wonder nose scrunched up in laughter mouth parted in a snarl forehead creased with worry eyes red with tears lips crooked in a smile eyebrows raised in surprise—
He had a mole on his right shoulder, right at the hollow between clavicle and muscle. How could Daniel have forgotten about that mole?
He opened his eyes to see a face he had seen a thousand times already. Armand was still looking up at him, but now with a red sheen on his eyes and lines of blood down his cheeks. He had a faint smile when he said,
"Hello, beloved."
Daniel lunged at him. It caught Armand off-guard enough that he stumbled backwards on the ground, and Daniel got to see a half-second of shock on his eyes before Armand's head hit the floor with an ugly thud. Daniel fell on top of him, pinning him down by his shoulders.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he shouted at the vampire under him, feeling his own face twist in a snarl.
"Daniel—"
"The best thing I've ever had in my life, and you take it away. What right did you have to—"
"I had to do it." Armand's voice was pained, but his expression was composed, as if he wanted to project the same self-control to Daniel.
"Bullshit! You did it because you wanted to. Because you can't resist toying with everyone that comes in your life like a fucking puppet."
"You have your memories back now, lover." Anger slipped through the cracks of Armand's façade like poison. "Tell me how well you were doing during the best thing in your life."
Daniel tried to remember any episode in particular, but his mind was still too mangled with a flurry of emotions and images, making it impossible to discern past flashes of laughter, whispers, cries, screams. When he didn't answer fast enough, Armand continued, in a cruel impression of his accent,
"I couldn't eat, sleep, nothing, just wander and think of you. You told me that once," he almost spit out the words. "Was that the life you wanted? That of an addict, a thrall?"
The words made Daniel want to laugh hysterically as well as punch a hole through Armand's face. He pushed his shoulders against the floor again and savored the dry thump of Armand's skull against wood.
"You think I was hooked on you? Pull your head out of your ass—"
"I know you were." Armand spoke baring his teeth, the tips of his fangs flashing in a snarl.
"I wasn't addicted to you! I was young—"
"Nights spent asking me for the blood—"
"I was stupid—"
"Crying, begging me to turn you—"
"How blind can you be, I mean—"
"Telling me I was selfish for refusing you immortality—"
"I was in love!" Daniel said, feeling the prick of his tongue against a fang. He saw the moment his words pulled Armand out of his raving.
"And so was I," he shot back with a firm tone and wide, terrified eyes. "And I would have to watch you shrivel and fade away. If not then, in another fifty years." The fear spread to his voice, suddenly unsteady and small. "I would have to watch you die. And I could not. I turned away lest I yielded to your demands, but in my selfishness and weakness I could not keep my distance. Half a century later, I paid the price for my cowardice. I had to watch you die and, again, I could not."
A drop of red made its way down the side of Armand's face, and it took Daniel too long to realize the tear had fallen from his own eye. He wanted to gnash and destroy. He wanted someone to see him lashing out and care. He wanted the cradle of a parent's arms.
He let go of one of Armand's shoulders to wrap a hand around his wrist, bringing it to his mouth. Armand stayed limp, allowing for the intrusion as a lamb awaits slaughter. Daniel could cry from the inadequacy of that reaction. Couldn't he see Daniel was nothing? He was a stumbling boy in his hunger, a baby wailing for his mother's breast.
Armand's blood was bitter with shame and guilt, and drinking it felt like being born a third time. He swallowed down his maker's remorse, chasing after the love that hid behind it. Through the flood of feeling, Daniel felt a flare of pain and noticed that Armand had lifted his neck to sink his teeth in the arm that still held him down. Daniel wondered what his own blood would taste like to him now that it was no longer mortal. He wondered if it would add to the guilt on his tongue.
They drank from each other until it was impossible to tell how much of the blood coursing in Daniel's veins had been in Armand's when the night began. When he started to tremble too much to hold the wrist properly against his mouth, he let go of Armand and toppled over onto his side.
He stared at Armand, speechless, as he too let go of the flesh in his mouth. His maker stayed still, facing the ceiling like it was a starry sky and he needed to see every constellation at once. When he finally turned to Daniel, there was too much in his expression to parse out, and Daniel mourned the fact their minds were forever closed off to one another.
Armand's hand slowly crossed the space between them on the floor to touch Daniel's mouth. Daniel felt full, fuller than he would be if he had drained three mortals in a row, but still his fangs were out. Armand traced the length of one, eyebrows creased like it hurt him to do so.
Daniel closed his eyes and pretended, against every sensation in his body, that he was mortal again. Do you regret making me?, he asked Armand, but no answer could come. The finger in his mouth pushed against the tip of his fang until it drew blood, and Daniel felt the bitterness in it again. It was an overwhelming taste, one that spread inside his mouth like it wanted to make a home in it. It wasn't entirely unwelcome.
I'm his mistake, Daniel thought. His monster.
His, his, his.
They spent the following week pretending that night didn't happen. Well, Armand did — he was good at putting on an act of normalcy, or at least his own weird version of it. Daniel, on the other hand, had never been a good actor, so he began avoiding his maker.
The thing was, he missed Armand. Thinking back to his years with him brought back a longing he hadn't felt even in his loneliest post-divorce nights. Fuck, he hadn't even missed any of his own daughters the way he did Armand. Filling up the holes in his mind just left him with a bigger one in his heart.
Still, having his memories back inflamed his anger alongside his love. He didn't care about Armand's excuses — Daniel couldn't forgive him for stealing years of his life. Besides, with the life (and death) experience he had now, Daniel could look back to all the fucked-up shit Armand used to do to him with new eyes — what had he been thinking, feeding his blood to a 25-year-old junkie?
This mixture of longing and ire made keeping his distance worse. The satisfaction Daniel got at seeing Armand's hurt expression when he ignored him was quickly overshadowed by the ache in his chest at turning his back on his maker. He wasn't able walk away for good now any more than when he had been a lovesick kid.
In his inability to ignore Armand, Daniel decided he could at least annoy him, considering he was now equipped with a decade's worth of insight on how to do it. Armand was very particular about his stuff — where each item should stay, how it should be used, how it should be turned off and cleaned and put away… the list was endless. Daniel had never been half as interested as Armand in house appliances and computers, so there never used to be many fights about him messing with his things. Now, however, Daniel was a man on a mission.
He moved everything around in the kitchen until not even the air fryer could be found without opening the wrong cupboards beforehand. He left greasy fingerprints on the tablets and turned on the PC just to leave the room right after. He even tilted the paintings on the wall when he passed by them, but nothing seemed to get a reaction out of his maker.
Armand still feigned normality. It would have been bearable if he were being smug about it, taking the high road in face of Daniel's pettiness, but he was still resigned to his guilt. Seeing Armand make a Via Crucis out of Daniel's immature behavior took the fun out of it, even though — Daniel had to remind himself — it wasn't supposed to be fun in the first place. Maybe he was hopping that a bloody fight followed by even bloodier fucking would get them back into the good old days. Maybe he just wanted Armand to actually externalize his feelings — the soft, beige pillow had always been more Louis' than Daniel's.
Daniel sulked his way into the living room and eyed the PlayStation 5 under the TV. He doubted that messing with it would get him different results from everything else he had already tried, but it wasn't like he had a better idea.
Daniel's experience with video games was null. Lenora had asked for the original PlayStation for her tenth birthday, but he hadn't payed enough attention and ended up getting her a Barbie Dreamhouse. Daniel shook off the mental image of a disappointed 10-year-old face and booted up the console.
He had seen Armand do it enough times to have at least a notion of how to navigate the menu. He scrolled through a dozen games of increasingly colorful and ridiculous covers — what the fuck was a Stardew Valley? — before moving back to the most recently played game, and the only one he recognized: Minecraft.
Opening the game reminded him of how out of his depth he was. He was a single player, right? What do you mean he was to choose a world? He ended up selecting "create new world", hoping that there would be instructions on how to play, but there were none.
Daniel resorted to pressing every button on the controller to figure out what he could do. He could jump, okay. And walk around. He had a vague notion that that game was about building, but he didn't find anything to build with. Eventually, he figured out how to break a block, and got around to doing it. After three minutes of digging he concluded that only someone as mentally ill as Armand could find that entertaining.
"You won't get anywhere trying to mine stones without a pickaxe," came a soft voice from behind his shoulder.
Daniel nearly jumped out of his skin. Speak of the devil…
"And how do I get a pickaxe?" He didn't look back, but he was sure Armand's eyes had an amused glint at having surprised him.
"You don't get one, you make it. Open the crafting interface."
"The what?"
The sound coming from behind him was very close to an exasperated sigh when Armand reached over his shoulder to press a button on the controller, and Daniel valiantly didn't react to the brief touch to his hand.
"This grid on the top is the crafting interface," Armand recited when an inventory popped up on the screen, "You can use it to turn wood into planks, and planks into a crafting table. Then, you place the crafting table and use it to make sticks. With five sticks you can make a pickaxe…"
Daniel had never been less interested in something coming out of Armand's mouth.
"Just— here, show me," he interrupted him, waving the controller at the empty space on the couch by his side.
Armand hesitated for a second before moving to sit beside Daniel. He took the controller, and immediately the game began moving with more fluidity than when it had been under Daniel's control. Armand got himself out of the hole his fledgling had spent the last few minutes digging and set about following that endless set of instructions.
Daniel really didn't care about learning to play that game, so he let his eyes slide off the TV screen until they landed on Armand's face by his side. His maker was focused on the screen, growing relaxed in a way that made him look painfully young. Daniel remembered the month Armand had discovered video cameras, becoming hell-bent on recording every aspect of their lives just to spend hours glued to a video player re-watching them. He had placed a camera inside his own coffin once, rushing to Daniel the following night to show him the tape. Daniel had found it unbearable to see Armand asleep, to see proof that something so powerful could look so vulnerable.
There was something of that feeling in him when he watched Armand play. He wasn't vulnerable, but he was calm — the kind of relaxed that made him forget a bit to control his face. The view made it obvious just how much of an act Armand's usual serenity was. Daniel felt a tug in his chest.
"Armand," he called. His maker responded with a small hum and a slight turn to his side, without taking his eyes off the screen. Daniel hadn't been sure what he was going to say when he said his name, but his reaction convinced him to go through with it. "Two things. One: I don't forgive you."
That took Armand's eyes away from the game. He looked pained, but making an effort to conceal it. It was resignation, more than anger or desperation, that he allowed Daniel to see on his face.
"Two," he continued, "I'm going to kiss you now."
He only waited enough seconds for Armand to process his words before leaning forward to chase his mouth.
Armand was frozen against him. After meeting unmoving lips, Daniel pulled back just enough to watch his face and be sure he hadn't given his maker a stroke. When Armand's eyes finally found his, they looked uncertain.
"You aren't…" he began, but quickly swallowed the next word. Daniel had a hunch it was going to be leaving. He didn't have the time to dwell on it, because the following second Armand was jumping back into the kiss.
As far as their kisses went, that had to be one of their chastest. Sweetest, too, but that might be just Daniel's old age speaking. He tangled his hand in Armand's curls, and the other vampire sighed against his mouth. He was about to deepen the kiss when Armand let out a soft exclamation and pulled away.
There was blood on his lips, and his face was curious. He watched, intrigued and amused, as Daniel noticed it and ran a tongue over his teeth to confirm what had caused it. Those fucking fangs.
He groaned, frustrated. "How do you control these things?"
Armand answered with a small smile, but Daniel could see the cogs turning behind his eyes. "I don't find controlling my fangs to be a problem. You, however, seem to be more… reactive."
Daniel didn't want Armand to see him embarrassed, so he got up and grunted, turning away, "Whatever. I'm gonna take a cold shower."
He was already taking his first step out when he heard the hitch of a breath behind him. He turned back and saw panic on Armand's eyes. Daniel cursed internally and decided he was in it for the long haul.
"You better be playing a more entertaining game when I come back. I don't wanna fall asleep on the couch."
He turned away again before the relief in Armand's gaze convinced him to go back to kissing him, fangs be damned.
There had to be something Daniel could do about it.
He'd had enough of piercing his own tongue when Armand as much as looked at him suggestively. It wasn't just the annoyance at not being able to hold back that part of his body that was getting to him — he didn't want his maker being reminded of how much of a fuck-up he was every time he kissed him. What kind of a vampire couldn't control his own fangs?
That self-consciousness was the only thing that had kept him from shoving his face between Armand's legs when he had gotten back from his shower just to find him playing some equally boring game on the PS5. Instead, Daniel had kept a painful distance from his maker on the couch and distracted him with questions about his game until sunrise.
The following night, Daniel left early to hunt. He roamed the streets until he found someone big enough — that nightclub down the block was gonna have to find a new bouncer. Daniel already felt pleasantly full by the time he was hiding the body, but when he caught some kid smoking alone in the alleyway, he thought it was better to be safe than sorry and drained her too.
For the first time in his death, the thought of blood made Daniel's stomach churn. He couldn't think of drinking even a drop more. There was no way his fangs would drop again before the night ended.
He rushed back home feeling very satisfied with himself. He found Armand on the kitchen, where Daniel didn't even let him finish the words good night before pouncing on him, leaving a trail of clothes from the counter to the edge of his bed.
Armand looked at him like he couldn't believe he was real. Daniel couldn't blame him — feeling Armand's skin against his after so long was surreal, and Daniel had only had his memories back for a few days. How did it feel for Armand, who had had to watch from the sidelines for decades?
Daniel couldn't bear the ache on Armand's eyes as he looked up at him, so he flipped him over on the bed. He went without protest, and his fledgling leaned over his back as he relaxed against the pillows. Daniel tucked his face against Armand's nape and, fuck, it was just like coming home.
Armand still smelled the same. Daniel knew he shouldn't feel surprised — the one thing vampire bodies don't do is change —, but no scent had been replaced. Same soap, same shampoo, same perfume. A creature of habit through and through, his little devil.
The affection that swelled up in his chest at thinking of Armand like that again made him sneak his hands between Armand's chest and the mattress and wrap both arms around his torso. His maker let out a deep sigh, melting further into his embrace, and Daniel wished his curls would tangle with Armand's while he nuzzled against his neck, so they could be stuck together like that.
Having his mouth so close to Armand's ear while in that state of mind was a danger. Before he began letting out noises no man of his age should, Daniel moved down Armand's shoulders, trailing kisses along his spine.
Armand breathed out a needy ah as Daniel's mouth made its way down his back, and his hand scrambled at his side to find his fledgling. Daniel reached for his arm, which relaxed immediately at the contact, and slid his hand up Armand's forearm, all the way to his shoulder, then down again to slot their palms together. Armand seemed satisfied with the touch, so Daniel continued his kisses.
Armand was everything. Daniel resisted the urge to rub his whole face between his shoulder blades like he could dive inside his chest. He ran his nose against the bumps of his spine and licked the dips of flesh around it. He groaned against his lower back and felt Armand shudder. God, that body was perfect; Daniel could just—
A small yelp from Armand made him pull away. Daniel stared angrily at the two red pinpricks just above his ass and nearly bit his own knuckles in frustration.
Daniel forgot about his anger at his own fangs when he noticed Armand was shaking under him. He started to panic, thinking he had really hurt him somehow, when his maker turned to his side and Daniel saw his face.
Armand was laughing. Daniel remembered in detail every single time he'd ever seen Armand laugh, because it happened so rarely he'd wanted it burned into his mind in case each one was the last. And his laughter was so pretty. It was the only thing that could fool Daniel into thinking of him as angelical, even if the spell only lasted a few seconds.
He was so busy wanting to drink that sound straight from Armand's mouth he nearly forgot what his maker was laughing about. Daniel forced any lovestruck expression out of his face and scowled.
"This isn't funny. How am I gonna eat you out with these in the way?" He ran his tongue over his fangs and wished they would just disappear.
The laughter subsided, leaving behind an affectionate smile and a spark in Armand's eyes.
"You are a resourceful boy, beloved. You will figure something out."
Daniel cursed his stupid decision to feed so much before doing this. With that much blood in his system, there was no way he wasn't flushing all the way to his ears at Armand's words. He didn't want his maker to see that being called a boy still had that effect on him even after half a century, so he ducked down to hide his face against Armand's ribs.
A more purposeful nip against his flank had Armand yelping again, and Daniel thought the humiliation might be worth it if he got to hear that laugh twice in the same night.
Daniel still hadn't managed to bait Armand into a fight, which was becoming more aggravating by the week.
It wasn't like they had fought all the time back then, but they had had their moments. It usually took a good deal of disrespect to get a reaction out of Armand — the reaction Daniel wanted, that was. It was easy to get Armand biting back his anger and sulking quietly, or playing the martyr to Daniel's insolence, but catch him on a bad day, poke him just right, and he would snap.
Daniel used to chase those moments like any other high. Nothing got his heart pumping like being at the mercy of Armand's rage. He wasn't suicidal, and he didn't exactly miss that week in San Francisco — he just missed the fear. Armand was powerful and terrifying, and Daniel liked being reminded of it just as much as Armand liked to pretend that wasn't the case.
It was an incredibly frustrating stalemate, but one Daniel had been able to sometimes tip in his favor. Not so much in their new life, it seemed.
Still, he hadn't given up trying. No reason to, when fifty years had given him such a long list of grievances to out.
"You revel in making yourself smaller than you are," Daniel accused him. The argument had been going on for a while, and still no rise from Armand, to Daniel's increasing irritation. "You don't want me to forgive you; you love the guilt. You get off on it."
A twitch of Armand's eye almost convinced Daniel he'd had him, but his makers tone was still placating when he said, "Beloved, I don't understand why—"
"Spare me the theater," Daniel's voice rose. "I'm not Louis. I'm not your fucking master. You can't get me to stay by just groveling low enough."
Half a second more of that perfect mask, then — Daniel could taste it in the air —
"Infuriating child," Armand spit out. "You've no one left for you to pick apart, and you think you can do it to me? You ingrate, you—"
Armand's fangs flashed from between his lips, and Daniel felt his own sliding out of his gums in reaction. Daniel hissed at him, and Armand hissed back.
God, Daniel felt alive.
Armand was sprawled out under Daniel with no grace to his limbs, hair tangled up and sticking to his face and eyes unfocused. There were no traces of the preternatural creature that he was; he just looked like a mess.
Daniel loved him like that more than anything. If he tired him enough, got him in the right mindset, fucked him just right, Armand could drop any pretenses of being alluring during sex. Nothing satisfied Daniel more than making Armand forget to play his part.
Daniel grabbed Armand's still-hard cock behind him and lifted his hips to sink down on it. Armand's hips twitched when he bottomed-out, and, once Daniel began to move, he threw his head back against the pillow, baring his neck and panting through his mouth.
Daniel watched as Armand's fangs came out alongside a keening moan. He felt half-crazed himself, but he grinned down at his maker with a sharp smile of his own.
Their kiss had entirely too many teeth.
Daniel like the stillness of the early night. It seemed like nothing was still anymore in the mansion, thanks to Armand's growing restlessness and obsession. He would jump from research in his study to calls with Fareed to meetings with mortal and vampire followers alike. Daniel knew what it was all building up to, but he decided to follow Armand to the depths of his compulsion. He was no stranger to self-destructive habits, after all.
Some nights, though, if he held on to Armand tight enough, he could convince him to forget the world for just a few hours. Armand would cling to him in turn and let Daniel soothe the gaping wound that was his heart.
Daniel had his arms around Armand's stomach and their legs tangled together. Armand's curls tickled his nose. He had stopped cutting them shorter every night, which Daniel liked to pretend was a stylistic choice and not related to the fact he had needed to remind Armand to feed at least once a month lately.
Daniel drew circles with his finger over Armand's hipbone, and he reached back to card a hand through Daniel's hair. Daniel let out a half-sigh, half-shiver against him and he moved his hand to trace his face. When Armand's finger reached his mouth to find fangs Daniel had long-since given up on hiding, he hummed.
Armand was in a pensive mood, that night. His voice was more curious than nostalgic when he spoke:
"You used to have such a fascination with them. I wonder if that is why yours are so responsive."
Daniel huffed against his hand. "I wasn't fascinated by the concept of fangs as much as by the fact you could use them to rip my throat open."
Armand's back shook pleasantly in a small laugh. "Perhaps. But it wasn't just your lust for danger. There was definitely an… aesthetic fixation with them. I would go as far as to call it a fetish."
Daniel spit out Armand's finger and teased, "Are you calling me a chaser?"
"Back then, I was the one doing most of the chasing, my love."
He chuckled at Armand's misunderstanding of the term, then allowed them to fall back into silence. After a moment, he decided to speak again.
"Remember when I asked you to keep your fangs inside me?"
Armand hummed in assent. "It was a rather stimulating night. I almost drank you alive."
Daniel couldn't restrain a shudder of pleasure at the memory — it turned out a vampire could shudder, if he was Daniel. Go figure.
"Wanna try it the other way around?" He wanted to sound playful, but it came out pathetically horny.
"Beloved, I don't share your penchant for masochis—" he stopped his words to let out a breathy ah when Daniel's fangs pierced his shoulder. Daniel hummed into the bite as if to ask You were saying? and he felt one of Armand's legs twitch against him. "Perhaps I can be convinced to let you indulge for a few minutes," he murmured.
Daniel held back a smile and sank his fangs deeper into his maker.